Mandatory Parental Tests
by Alachai
Summary: Mr. Winchester, we’re concerned for your sons’ health. Mentally and physically. A fluffy Wee!Winchester fic...including Protective John.


Mandatory Parental Tests

"This is your sons' entire fault," The words echoed and then repeated themselves; they were boomeranging. "Your sons are completely to blame."

John Winchester looked up at Principle Birkenstock, after glaring at that man for exactly thirty seconds his gaze went to Mrs. Maccarone, and then it landed on Mr. Ponigranite. The demon hunter smirked.

"So, exactly, what did my sons do again? Humor me, I'm getting deaf in my old age," Sad enough, the man was the youngest one in the room; especially considering that the second youngest had to be about…what…sixty?

"Your son, Dean Winchester was caught in the act of painting and carving incongruous symbols in all of his class' desks; some were insulting to the students, and were quite odd and scary in shape," Incongruous to scary and odd – John smirked again, reminding himself to give his twelve-year-old a high-five later.

"And Sam?" John bit his lip in anticipation; his youngest boy wouldn't hurt a leaf.

"He broke my antique vase; claiming it contained the remains of something evil inside of it," Mrs. Maccarone this time – the one named after the cookie, but spelt differently.

'_Saved your life_,' John felt the urge to say; the father just clamped his mouth shut, and nodded his head. "That's all?" He gave his innocent look – the one that his boys gave – the one that made every single teacher in the school want to pull their hair out and jump over a balcony.

"No," Principle Birkenstock, again; or, as his eldest son put it 'Santa Clause's twin, plus a hundred – _pounds, that was_.' "Your oldest son, during his lunch period, spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom, and then came out with a bad fever and Chicken Pox," _Ah, yes_, the reason he was here. _Admirable trick to get out of school, Dean. Peachy and admirable_. John needed to call Pastor Jim, he, after all, helped Dean with _that_ trick. "Two weeks earlier, Sandy Whombat came out with the same thing," John was now biting his tongue – _did everybody in that school have a last name that represented something_? _Winchester – Like the Rifle._ _Handsome, jaw dropping men, sold separately. _

"But before that, Samuel had come down with the exact same thing. _All _of these, after lunch; _all_ of these after fifteen minutes in the bathroom," John felt the urge to ask if Sandy was in the bathroom with his sons. _Then_, he would be concerned.

"Your sons," John looked up, Santa Clause was giving him a hawk's stare. No wonder his kids needed to interlace themselves in idiosyncratic behavior. "Have given," The man was speaking in short doses – his accent went from normal to Cuban, to country, to English with every word. Was it illegal to bring Holy Water and a gun filled with rock salt to school these days? He'd have to ask Pastor Jim. "The school a serious disease."

John snorted. Good job, Dean, very well done_. That's coming out of your allowance._

"Your boys," The principle, not that it was thought possible, gave John a harder stare. "Have only been in here for nine weeks – half of a semester. They have already caused us _so_ much turbulence," _Try being on an airplane with a possessed jerk_; once again, John kept his mouth shut. "We're worried for their health."

John coughed.

"Mentally, and physically," Mr. Ponigranite, his voice loud and booming as the thunder, spoke up this time – was he named after a fruit or vegetable? John couldn't remember. Half immature horse, half granite counter top; that was easy to remember.

_Mentally and physically._

_Mentally and physically._

_Mentally and phy…_

That was it, John burst into laughter, causing all three of the counselors/witnesses, or demons to glare at him even more harshly.

_Mary would kill me_, the thought popped into John's mind like sliced bread in a toaster. He stopped laughing. He was never good at making toast. Killing demons, sure, no problem; putting a few slices of carbs in a baking oven and waiting two minutes, he'd set the house on fire.

"Mr. Winchester," Mrs. Macaroni this time – _tasty and easier to remember –_ plus, that was how her body was shaped. "Do you find yourself a fit parent?"

John looked down – looked at his new, white, button down shirt. Looked at his clean jeans, looked at his calloused hands; sobering. "Do you find _yourself_ a fit parent?" There. He said it. Something, with a tinge of sarcasm. Something that he actually wanted to say. _Way, way, way to much coffee, Jonathon_.

He received a glare, times three, and then he waited.

_And waited. _

_And waited. _

Finally, the not-so-jolly man pressed a button on the phone by his chair. "Send Mr. and Mr. Winchester in, Sue," John cringed as he bit his tongue once again. They were brothers, two innocent beings rescuing their school, not homosexual home keepers.

Now though, as the prison gate opened, they looked like two, very sleepy, very drained, very, very much in trouble little boys. _His_ sons. What did they ever do to deserve this?

His eight-year-old's thick, black hair was mopped out in a way no one could explain. And, more than ever now, did the kid look like Pluto.

Dean, on the other hand, had two _very_ dark circles under his eyes – yet his eyes were glaring. _Nice, Dean, don't cause spontaneous combustion to your man handler_.

"_Daad_," Only then did he realize Sam had hot tears running down his cheeks, and his nose was running like the fountain of – _well_…

"Sammy," John immediately reached for his boy, but the woman entitled 'Sue' pulled his frail boy back.

"Dad, they hurt Sam," John's gaze flickered over to Dean. Dean's fists were clenching.

_They hurt Sam…_

_They hurt Sam…_

_They hurt Sam…_

The sweet, innocent words said by his older boy made John's mind do the barracuda. First, he turned to the principle, bypassed the three others and then looked at his youngest boy. His boy overflowing with innocence and compassion; the one who put sprinkles on the whipped cream on his coffee.

**_They. Hurt. Sam_**.

"Let go of my boy, **_NOW_**," Not waiting for their reaction, John sent the five dollar chair he was sitting in reeling towards the window, and from under the pale woman's grasp, snatched not only Sam, but Dean away from her.

"You evil sons of-" He looked at his twelve year old, and then to his eight year old, who, a moment ago, was sniffling into his father's leather jacket – now looking up at him, new tears brimming in his eyes, a tiny smile on his lips. "Satan."

"It's ok, daddy," Sam was still staring up at him, pleading innocently. "We've been around Pastor Jim, and Uncle Bobby. We've heard worse."

John gulped; Dean began wriggling out from under his father's lead grasp. _Sammy just had to bring up PJ in that sentence_…

Yet again, he looked down to Sam. The more knowledgeable one of his sons had his stubby, short arms wrapped around a little over half of John's torso. At the above-hip joint, Sam's nails were bearing in like there was no tomorrow. The kid's face was united with John's stomach – just above the bellybutton. If John sniffed forcibly enough, he could smell the salt brimming from his son's tears. And if the immobilized man could move, he would have been in the Impala with his sons by now.

"Mr. Winchester," John looked up, it was the horse-granite guy staring at him over his spectacles that took up half of his face. "You've-"

"I'm withdrawing my sons from your-"John interrupted the man, and then, realizing that he was about to slip them the big cussword, interrupted himself again. "Diabolic exhibition of children torturing and hazing."

John attempted to pick his foot up, storm out of the room with his boys, and slam the door. Sam, on the other hand, still attached to his hip, had placed both feet firmly on both of his father's.

"_Sam_."

"Yes daddy?"

"Would you please move your little feet off of mine, son?"

"Must I?"

"You better if you want to get the hell out of here," It was Dean this time. John noticed his older boy was enjoying this. And of all the people, John knew that if Sam was hurt by someone, Dean would be the most upset. Something here was wrong; or, more or less, there was another thing on the list of wrongs going on here.

"Mr. Winchester, please –" The principle, this go-round.

"Sam, if you want to graduate high school successfully, and go to a great college, you first need to graduate elementary school. In order to do that, you need to be alive. In order to maintain your life's existence, you need to move your feet," Bribery, with his boys, always worked. Right now, his main fear was escaping the office quickly enough to escape them calling Child and Family Services.

Sam moved. John, with Dean and Sam close behind, started running out of the office. "**_WAIT_**!" It was that kind of 'wait' that forced all three Winchesters to stop in their tracks, and turn around. Sam and Dean walked obediently up to their teachers. _This place is a cult, and they've got my sons!_ John moved towards the teachers, reaching for the emergency knife in the concealed pocket sewed onto his jacket. The evil slave drivers were going to die – one by one. The demons inside of them just hadn't admitted they were in there. _Normally they were all so proud…_

"Christo," None of them batted an eyelash.

"Mr. Winchester," The woman named Sue spoke up, her voice as juicy as a bountiful orange. "We'd like to congratulate you. You have undergone our Mandatory Parental Test done for the benefit of our students. It's to prove that parents will protect their children under any given circumstances. Granted, your sons _have done_ those _awful_ things, and it is _mandatory_ for you to discipline them; for the school to grant them a detention. Please do schedule an appointment on your way out."

John looked between his two sons, one still glaring, looking fed up, the other, way too innocent. _Fake tears_. He looked at the woman. _God, she never shut up_. He turned his gaze on the principle and teachers. This whole school thing was a scam; one huge scam. John knew from the very beginning he should have home schooled his children.

"You are dismissed," With that, without making a sarcastic comment, John Winchester and his sons stormed out of the prison.

"Dean."

"Yeah dad?" The voice was quiet.

"You know how I told you; you could have the Impala when you were older?" If Dean shut his eyes tight enough, he could see every wrinkle in the seats, every spark in the cherry-black metallic.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, now, by the time you inherit the Impala, I will no longer be on this earth, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean took the whip-lash with a heavy gulp.

"And boys," He stopped, his sons faced him – they were out of the building and half way towards the trophy car.

"Yes, father?" Simultaneously, _you just had to admire them for that_.

"Great acting in there!"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading! This story was plotless – just a muse. And by NO means was there meant to be any insults to teachers or school staff. My sister is a teacher, my cousin is one, and my aunt is one. This is dedicated to them. – and the rowdy parents undergoing things like John Winchester might have. 


End file.
